Free The Shield of Weeping Ghosts by James P. Davis

paused as a green light burst in the soldier’s chest, eating away at the armor and dried flesh beneath until the creature collapsed into a pile of dust. Anilya stood nearby, her hand still glowing with the timely spell.
    She strode forward, glancing at the portal and the vortex above it. Behind her the battle shifted as more of the undead tore themselves from the ice and snow and dug their way into the fight.
    “Can you stop it, vremyonni?” Anilya asked.
    “I can try,” he said, “but I make no promises.”
    “Good enough,” she said and turned to face the hall of raging Rashemi and undead soldiers. Ohriman dashed to her sideI and slashed at a pair of shriveled arms breaking free beneath his feet. Wielding a wand of pale green wood, Anilya shouted over her shoulder to Bastun, “Do what you can! We will try to give you time!”
    Lacking the time to question the good sense in trusting a durthan, Bastun turned back to the portal and began to trace patterns through the runes. He shook his head as possibilities came and went, discarding one idea after another. The pages of spellbooks flipped through his mind, turning and turning as he tried to find a weakness in the dense net of magic that flowed among the portal’s spells.
    The others struggled against the tide of undead soldiers and made slow progress, though the strange look in Syrolf s eye haunted Bastun’s sense of hope. The smell of burning
    bone wafted from the steaming remains of another of Anilya’s targets, her wand flashing a bright emerald light every few moments.
    Growling in frustration, Bastun chose. His fingertips brushed the edges of one rune as he reached for another. He whispered arcane names, quickly trying to identify the symbols even as he called upon their power. For a moment, between the cracks and the squirming magic, he saw a pattern. His eyes widened, seizing upon the two runes he had chosen and managing the last syllables of their names before his breath was stolen from him.
    + + + + +
    I369 DR, Year of the Gauntlet “Where is your breath?”
    Keffrass’s voice whispered in Bastun’s ear as he concentrated. Sweat beaded on his forehead, rolled into his eyes, and dripped from his chin. Magic filled his limbs, granting him power—raw power. It was his to master, to control lest it break free. His will and his rage warred inside of him, defying his training and calling upon him to be free, to destroy.
    Slowly, he inhaled, shuddering and shaking, his eyes trying to focus on a delicate glass object resting on the floor within a chalk circle several paces away.
    “There,” Keffrass said, pacing behind him. The vremyonni taught secrets of magic that even the wychlaren did not use, destructive spells forbidden among the wilds of Rashemen. They felt it necessary to push the limits of their knowledge into dangerous places, for one never knew when such secrets might be needed. “Master your breathing, will your pulse to deliver only what the body needs. Keep the mind free. Make a place within yourself to hide from the ravages of anger. Divide your
    flesh from your mind, but control both as instruments of your will. Now speak the words.”
    Bastun spat, his lips trembling. Pain arced through his body, filling his arms and flooding down to his legs. His fingertips glowed and he gritted his teeth, forcing the magic to subside, to obey his will. He smiled as it did so, tensing his body as if for battle, though his mind cleared as the spell worked its way to his tongue and issued from his lips.
    The glass sculpture rose sharply into the air, spinning wildly. Exhaling carefully, Bastun stopped its motion by degrees until it floated calmly at eye level. It drifted to the right, Bastun’s every breath a matter of pure control as the magic spent itself from him. Bastun directed it to sit within a second circle. The sculpture landed silently and he released it from his control.
    The power fled from his limbs, the Weave reforming itself into natural